Simon stood back as he watched elegant and skilled fingers swirl a whisk in four embezzled egg whites. What the hand lacked in speed was replenished in turning circle.

"Almost pleasant," he said, carefully bending forward and curving his own fingers around the slowly revolving wrist. "Not perfect, however. Imagine you're a chocolatier creating cobwebs for a beautiful young film star such as Rodrigo Santoro, you need to envision long strings of woven purity extending from your very tips."

"Er, alright," Sam replied, frowning slightly. His frown really was quite exquisite. Simon could smell the barest hint of Dalmore on his breath, a soupçon of cheap cigarettes in his hair. It was intoxicating. Oh, to be surrounded by beautiful diamonds gleaned from the very rough of life.

Sam edged away and glanced at Simon. "Is this any better?" he asked, uncertainly, quivering like the nervous colt that had knocked him off during his game of polo and left him in this Godforsaken place. Up North. The thought of it.

"It's looking wonderfully dishevelled," Simon confirmed.

"I like cooking," Sam said with an indulgent smile. "I like anything that brings creativity and order together, enmeshed and entwined until you can't pull them apart." He gained a wistful look in his dark honey-hued eyes.

Simon winced at his accent, whilst simultaneously revelling in it. The uncouth glory! Still, a point had to be made, and he wasn't afraid to make it.

"Any chef worth an ounce of organically gathered seasalt would sooner sew their lips together than refer to any practice in the kitchen with the vulgar term of 'cooking'."

"What should you call it, then?"

"The very nature of the action. Here, I am forfeiting. There, I am inflecting. One minute I might be censoring, the next ejaculating. There is no such thing as 'cooking'."

Sam raised his eyebrows, so expressive, so refined, and began to tithe the eggwhites into the spinach and ricotta. His lips twisted thoughtfully as he appliqued the zenith of ravaged parmesan.

"Hang on," Sam said suddenly, halting his movements and staring at Simon. His glare was intense and enthralling. Like sunshine bursting through a storm with wild, unchecked abandon, accompanied by music from Benjamin Britten. "Did you say Rodrigo Santoro? How could you possibly know who he is?"

Simon could smell the barest hint of Dalmore on his breath, a soupçon of cheap cigarettes in his hair. It was intoxicating. Oh, to be surrounded by beautiful diamonds gleaned from the very rough of life.

Soupçon! Rough! *now speechless with love for Loz*

"The very nature of the action. Here, I am forfeiting. There, I am inflecting. One minute I might be censoring, the next ejaculating. There is no such thing as 'cooking'."